


Many Paths to Night

by GrowingAHead (shelleyk0503)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-18 22:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8178109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleyk0503/pseuds/GrowingAHead
Summary: There is a sense of uneasiness throughout Gotham: Some members of the Bat-family seem to be going out of control. Many of the villains are strangely absent. There is a rumor of a mysterious 'bat-sickness'. Against this backdrop, a new villain from outside the city announces a plan regarding the Bat and the Clown.* Rewritten as 'The Rotating Stage'. (Different post)





	1. The Messenger Comes, Bearing Burns and Bile

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting here! (Not long since making an account, really.)
> 
> Some warnings beforehand: 
> 
> What I have in mind is a thriller set in Batman universe. It does have many original characters and while it's about Batman/Joker, it's also about how this pair affects the whole world(and people in it) around them. So there is a lot of focus on other characters as well - both original and canon.
> 
> As for the Batman/Joker dynamic - nothing graphically sexual, perhaps some touching and innuendos. Really, the usual for those two. :) (I'm basing their tones on New 52 comics, for reference.) 
> 
> This doesn't follow a specific 'verse' in Batman canon. Rather, it's a mix-and-match of various elements from many verses. The basic framework I've built is from the comic book (although there are so many versions and I cannot say that I know them all!) and BTAS. However, there will be bits that have 'flowed' from other verses as well. So I suppose it's an AU that sort of floats between all different versions. 
> 
> Also, Justice League is not really a thing in this universe. (I have a timeline regarding this particular AU but that'll have to develop into another story that I'm not sure about right at the moment.)
> 
> I'm sorry for the lack of Damian Wayne. For some reason, I just can't seem to be able to write him in this particular story. 
> 
> Thank you!

_Once upon a time,_

_A child walked into darkness._

_The darkness said to the child,_

_“Let’s make a deal.”_

 

* * *

 

 

**Final Act, Final Scene**

The Bat walks.

The inside of the suit that was slick with blood, sweat, seared skin, and slime has now dried like scabs. It will feel very much like flaying his whole skin when he takes it off. (But then, what other way can he feel whenever he sheds his suit?) The substances inside his bloodstream still makes him feel as if he’s wading through a murky swamp of thick dreams and treacherous memories.

He takes a deep breath and the gulp of air is turned into nauseating sweetness coating his tongue. It's like he’s breathing on just his own breath. His cowl was designed to cover only the upper part of his face so that his breathing doesn’t suffer but in current condition, he might as well have been breathing with a stocking over his entire head. He had wondered how Jason managed with _his_ brand of a mask. He had refrained from asking because that simple curiosity may sound like an accusation, as most of the things he said to his children.

Which brought in thoughts about the aftermath of his family, of Jim, of his city –

But they were _aftermaths._  His role in those matters would be that of a supporting role. Right now, his role is to see this through, to that final period. Right now, he is a darkness focused into a needlepoint, trailing strands of shadow that silently drapes over his trodden path.

The Bat walks.

The corridor is only lit by dim, greenish light. That and the combined smell of disinfectant and various chemicals remind him of green hair and the smell of powder-white skin. It is slightly unsettling, like some twisted, alien version of something familiar. Although, what kind of being would think of the latter as something familiar?

One could probably call it funny.

He touches the blood-splattered card inside one of his many pockets. It feels like the scrawled letters upon it trickle up his fingers, tugging at them, emitting wisps of giggles and sliding under the glove and skin like fine sharp wires. The old scar on his back aches dully, hotly, as if reacting to the card.

The Bat stops.  

The corridor ends with a door that takes up the entire space. He pushes it and it opens inwards soundlessly into a large room. At the end is a line of several beds – with complicated equipment, busily beeping and projecting signals and numbers onto screens.

The Bat approaches towards the bed at the end of the line.

A figures lies upon it.

Another is sitting beside it, like a family, like a guard.

Upon closer look, the figure hardly looks human. It looks like some voodoo doll made up of tattered clothes and straw, soaked with septic and blood and torn skin.

Then a voice, no more than a whisper, flows through the mechanical lullaby.

“So, you have found out.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Act 1. The Messenger Comes, Bearing Burns and Bile**

 

The City is a beast.

The light of day hides much of its nature, a golden cage it deigns to sleep in in mocking allowance of a pretense of human civilization. Its day-face continually draws people in with promises of money, opportunities – of a ‘life’ - despite its reputation for attributing the latter with very little worth.

 _Welcome, welcome,_ it sleep-whispers at the newcomers, its amused contempt tinged with something almost like pity. _There’s plenty of space in my belly yet. And I’m always hungry._

But at the threshold of day and night – when the sun bleeds into thick dark red and purple like a deep bruise – the city stretches out of its day façade and chases away the last of light with its electric eyes and teeth and claw hidden in form of darkness. _Come, come,_ it rumbles at its denizens. _Come out of your hiding holes. It’s time to play. And what playground I have! A veritable circus of wonders! Blackest creature on leather wings, palest clown with a smile that kills, straw man feeding on darkest pits of nightmares, impossible riddles and puzzles glowing poison-green. And so much more. A Feast of Fools that you’ve never seen! Come out, and come in. The night is cold, and it’s warm and fun inside my maw._

The City is a beast.

But now, it senses a change in its routine. Something nagging inside its belly. A foreign claw mark on an old hunting ground. An unknown parasite that managed to sneak into its bloodstream.

The beast has been on edge.

And on this night, a navy Mercedes, already muddied from its tortured drive through city’s cluttered entrails, pulls over at the front steps of the GCPD building. Two figures step out of the vehicle and into heavy rain. The beast growls at the newcomers, with less contempt and more hostility than usual.

_You’re not welcome._ _You’re bad news._

As if sensing this, the shorter of the two lifts her black head into the wet, pungent air of the city. She gives a crooked smile, and spits on the first ground of Gotham she steps on.

 

* * *

 

 

_“The reality of Vigilante - Heroes in our Midst, the very title of this debate, is rather ridiculous because it shouldn’t even be a reality. Criminals fighting criminals – isn’t their very existence is a mockery of our current system?”_

_“Doctor Sinclair, perhaps our system deserves a bit of mockery. The ‘system’ is just a set of rules that many happen to agree is best at a certain time period. This vigilante – hero reality is simply another ‘system’ that has sprung up – perhaps to plug a few holes that have been eating up our ‘regular’ system.”_

_“And what about the negative consequences of ‘that’ particular system? Professor Rodriguez, perhaps some of the early vigilante-heroes_ did _serve as a wake-up call among ‘ordinary’ criminals thriving in corrupted holes of the justice system. What about the costumed menaces that those pioneers ‘inspired?’ I’m not only talking about the painted monsters that fester in cities like Gotham, but other self-proclaimed heroes. Unlike the prominent Batman, those deluded victims are lucky if they just fade into obscurity – they’re like blind birds flying into plane engines.”_

_“Perhaps, if we collectively come to our senses and realize that these vigilantes are no better than the criminals they hunt, and refuse this ‘illusion’ of ‘their system’ – declaring that we have no need for them -”_

“Ah, live debates, one of the most useless inventions made prominent in today’s media. Turn the channel, Dave. It’s almost time for Gotham Central broadcast.”

“Hey, Lily! When did you come back?”

“This morning.”

“Oh really? So I wasn’t imagining things when I thought I heard you arguing with Jared in the cafeteria. You know, people might begin to think you two look cute together.”

“Dave, a joke like that, you’ll find ground glass in your food one day.”

Unfazed, David Cheng held up both hands – one of them holding a jumbo-sized sandwich – in an exaggerated gesture of surrender.

“Exorcise that workaholic spirit of yours, then you won’t have to suffer such groundless nonsense.”

Lillian McGuire responded with a wan smile. She still had an extra day of leave and didn’t need to come in to work. Upon her return, however, she found that staying alone in her apartment, devoid of any living things or personal touch, kept reminding her of Sharon lying under the sickly turquoise duvet, of the powdery whiteness of the sterilized room, the smell of decay and stagnancy permeating the sting of disinfectant, of holding her former mentor and lover’s hand – so frail that she feared it’d crumple under her grip. About to suffocate under such memories, she had practically fled to her work.

But Arkham hadn’t offered the relief she’d expected this time, not quite. The absence of its usual residents echoed through the building’s walls, ringing through the comparatively meager populace, spreading uneasiness. Lillian felt it keenly upon her return for she had secretly hoped that Scarecrow – Dr. Crane – was back. He seemed to have been absent for a considerable while. Tetch was alright – well, compared to some of the others – but Crane, whatever he was right now, at least shared the same language.

Seeking comfort among the crazies and the murderers. Perhaps _something_ needed to be exorcised from her.

Dave had turned back to the TV screen – not touching the remote – and spoke again.

“So how is the old gal?”

“Pretty much the same as last time.”

Lillian always felt guilty about leaving Sharon. When Sharon left Gotham, Lillian had followed her to work with her at the NY State Hospital. Within a year, she found herself back in Gotham and its most notorious asylum like a homing pigeon. She couldn’t say why except that she was a born Gothamite. And you carried Gotham in you.

They’d never officially broke off, never entered another relationship. They kept in touch. The connection thinned out but held. Even now, a year since Sharon was committed to the New York psychiatry.

A rustle startled her as she tried to sit in her chair. Frowning, she lifted the NY Daily News strewn across her chair. At least a day old because she remembered reading the same headline on the paper on the plane during her return trip:

_“_ _Red Hood out of Control – The vigilante’s continuing violent clashes with local gangs resulting in increase of collateral damages......”_

She looked at the other pages thrown haphazardly across the office and wrinkled her nose at her office-mate. David kept watching the screen, not giving any hint that he noticed her glares. With a sigh, she picked up the Blüdhaven Daily hanging precariously off her desk. A particular article caught her interest, perhaps in relation to the previous headline: _“_

_Another accusation towards Blüdhaven’s local vigilante – anonymous tip pointing towards Nightwing as the culprit of the recent assassinations of the more colorful local names…”_

“What _were_ the two of you arguing about this time? I thought I heard Jared mention Mad Hatter.”

“It’s the usual. You know how he likes to push his nose into other people’s business.”

She’d regretted going to the cafeteria as soon as she’d sighted Singh, who had a talent for making any argument deteriorate into the kind that perforated kindergarten backyard, somehow reducing his opponents to his level.

_‘As if any uninspired, lily-livered excuse of a doctor pandering to a fairy-tale fetishist would know any better.’_

_Lily-livered?_ Who actually _said_ that? Was that keeping in with his own patient’s theme? You’re lucky that Ivy got out some time ago and hasn’t been around for a while because it was only a matter of time before your so-called _sessions_ (just a ‘touch’ short of the word dalliance) with Ivy put you into a – a _flytrap_ you can’t argue out of, Singh, thought Lillian as she angrily tidied up her desk.

Although, it was more likely a jab at her visit. It was no secret that he always had it in for both her and her mentor – “Rose of Sharon and Lilly of the Valley.” She couldn’t remember who first coined the nicknames but it wouldn’t be the last time someone like Jared Singh would use it to taunt her.

_“This is no place for such delicate flowers, sooner or later, you’ll run or wilt just like Sharon.”_

Lillian had turned and left because the only other option would’ve been to smash the smug bastard’s face in.

David’s voice – muffled by mouthful of sandwich – brought her out of the reverie.

“Don’t be bothered about Singh. He’s been going around picking fights these past few days like a dog cheated out of his bone. All because the word has been going around that director Marsellus is determined to put you on unit A, specifically to _you-know-who_.”

Lillian nearly dropped her folder. She was grateful that David was still watching TV and couldn’t see her.

“I didn’t know… that he was back.”

“Oh, he isn’t. The King isn’t back on his throne – all is well. But, you know, once he comes back.”

David did turn around this time and Lillian was glad that she had her poker face on by that time.

“You know the whole admin had their eyes on you ever since Sharon quit, what with you being sort of a successor to her. And you’ve managed some great connections with many of the patients.”

“It just means they don’t actively try to kill me. I have self-preservation instincts so I’m careful.“

“So maybe you’ll keep up that record.”

“Well, there’s practically always a _lineup_ for that position, Jared Singh at the forefront. Can’t imagine why everyone thinks he – " - Lillian bit back the words 'that _thing_ ' - "- is some kind of psychologist’s trophy but Marsellus can pick any of them.”

“He has done it, is doing it. Back in the days of old Jeremiah, that’d have been fine too. But Marsellus probably wants to feel a little less like he’s tossing mice into snake pit by this point.”

_‘You, are, rather refreshing. Different flavor. Like nibbling on earthy marrow after a con-st-aaaaant diet of instant noodles and dollar-mart candies,’_

Remembering the raspy voice, with a low cackle underlying it, Lillian suppressed a shudder. She’d heard records of Sharon’s sessions with _him_ before Sharon destroyed all of them - even before handing in her resignation letter. Jeremiah Arkham had been furious. Truth be told, Lillian had also been angry with her mentor at that time, disappointed.

_I don’t know you. Not this you._

_I do not know this woman, a woman running away, a woman riddled with fear._

When Lillian had demanded the reason for abandoning the whole thing – the sessions, her work here, when she seemed to be at the peak of her career – Sharon had looked at her straight and Lillian had backed away from what she’d seen from her eyes – something she’d never seen and couldn’t name.

“Lillian, there is nothing I can do. I can’t treat him. He isn’t sick.”

 _He is sickness_.

Sharon’s resignation letter wasn’t approved for quite a while because the administration was unwilling to let one of their most renowned staff go. Then Sharon’s body had grown weak to the point where she had trouble in daily functions and Jeremiah Arkham had no choice. Sharon returned home - New York City - where she had family and friends to take care of her. Some, like Jared Singh, maliciously joked that Sharon had willed herself to get sick in order to run away. Lillian couldn’t really refute that for she had the same suspicion. But as years went by, she eventually realized that the most apt description for Sharon’s deterioration was that she was slowly being poisoned – perhaps the starting point was not even when she was assigned to _him_ , but the moment she set afoot in Arkham, in Gotham. In hindsight, Lillian could now see that Sharon had never fitted into the city as Lillian herself couldn’t at NY. What Lillian perceived as being her quiet passion and ambition for her work was perhaps her trying to replace her inability take root in this city. Gotham, not particularly kind even to its oldest denizens, could be _toxic_ towards that were not of its own. Perhaps all that accumulated toxin had manifested fully a year ago. Lillian felt it whenever she visited Sharon. From Sharon’s family and colleagues and caretakers at NY. That unspoken accusation.

That’s her. One that belongs to Gotham.

Gotham that reduced our shining star to _this._  

To them, Lillian was no different from _him_.

Perhaps that held a grain of truth – Lillian never could stand the blinding whiteness, the cold plastic setting of Sharon’s hospital. It muffled her from the inside, like cotton drenched in alcohol pressing against her brain and she always had to fight an urge to pluck Sharon from that pristine purgatory to – to – where? Surely it wasn’t right to feel this way. To be relieved to be breathing the somehow-always-damp and musty air of the asylum, to find comfort in its old grey walls lined with metal skeletons of its grotesque structure, and the darkness that forced both one’s eyes and mind to stay sharp......

“Dave, the news,”

“As if news is any better these days. But Lillian, didn’t you feature in that debate last year? They really should have invited you back for this. To talk about vigilantism and Batman without inviting any spokesperson from Arkham – “

“Believe me, once was enough. I don’t know what possessed me at that time. That Doctor Sinclaire was there too, I remember what he said about the asylum – that we must be “overzealous in our duty in upholding its reputation as a benevolent rehabilitation center – of a ‘catch and release’ policy,”"

“I also remember you saying that we’d be quite willing to transfer some of our famous patients to Sinclair Psychiatric Center if he felt that his center was better equipped to deal with them.”

“Since then, they didn’t invite me back, which is just as well.”

She frowned as she took up her paperwork. There was an onset of a headache while coming back to the office… now it had worsened. Sharon flinched as she felt a slight pang in the lower regions of her stomach. Maybe the stew tonight didn’t agree with her.

The TV droned on as she shuffled her notes and her colleague kept chewing.

_“…rather than replacing system, it’s more like replacing one fear for another. And right now, what fearful new reality we’re thrust into - of vigilante heroes and painted rogues. They’ve basically sprung from the same source of fear and…”_

Fear.

Whenever Lillian looked into Sharon’s milky blue eyes that stared into nothing, trying to find some spark of their former brilliance, fear overtook sadness. What was this creature, this wizened being that was barely alive, with only a shell of the person she knew before? It was frightening how the body changed to reflect the state of mind, or absence of one.

Biting her lip, Lillian read over her notes on the latest interview with Jervis Tetch. Tetch had been somewhat preoccupied. He was one of the more docile cases once he was within the asylum and was more or less cooperative with his sessions. But today, he hardly seemed all there, mumbling to himself the whole time. What bothered her the most was the sentence she heard him mutter:

_“_ _… no, but yes, no… but perhaps… should I talk to… the BAT…?”_

She had asked about it but Tetch had refused to answer her.

Lillian bit her lip. Perhaps the stress was the cause for the growing stomachache. She had come in to escape her memories of Sharon, but Tetch’s utterance had put her right back there.

 

* * *

 

 

_Ever since she was committed, Sharon barely reacted to any stimuli, let alone speak actual words. This time, Sharon was fingering something underneath the covers with the hand that was not held by Lillian. Lillian had reached out and gently pulled out the frail hand. It held a playing card. Nothing strange about that, the caretakers encouraged games among patients and there were many stacks of trump cards lying around._

_Still…… Lillian frowned at the card in Sharon’s hand. A joker._

_“Should I talk?”_

_Jolted, Lillian snapped up her head to stare at Sharon._

_“Enlightenment is a terrible thing. It is a sickness. But if you’re not enlightened, you die. Either get sick or die.”_

_Sharon was looking directly at her for the first time in this past year. She still gave no sign of any recognition, but the blue of her eyes seemed to have a smallest, clear light to them. Like someone had poked at a fogged glass._

_“So, do I talk?”_

_Lillian thought of calling for the caretaker, to ask what to do, but she didn’t want to lose this fragile opportunity. She leaned over and tried to keep her voice and herself from trembling._

_“Should you what, Sharon? Talk about what?”_

_“I talked. I don’t – think I should have. But, I had to. I didn’t want to, but I did. I remembered.”_

_To Lillian’s dismay, the cloudiness was back in Sharon’s eyes. The voice quivered. Lillian tightened her grip, thought better of it, and carefully ran her fingers along Sharon’s hair, her forehead, cheek – fearful that she might break something._

_“Shhhh… I’m sure it’s fine. Don’t worry. Whatever you talked about –“_

_“HE came. I REMEMBER.”_

_Suddenly, Sharon shot forward with unbelievable force that she nearly knocked Lillian’s forehead. Lillian backed up, open-mouthed. The joker card was being crushed under bony fingers as Sharon nearly choked on the force of her own words. Lillian could now see the source of that light in her eyes: Fear._

_“I – I have to TELL HIM – “_

_At that moment, the caretaker came in, rushed to grab Sharon and laid her back down. Probably the right thing to do, as she was breathing heavily, her thin chest heaving as the orderly pulled up the covers. Yet she still spoke._

_“I have to talk to him. The bat, the BAT. MAN.”_

_“I think the visit is over.”_

_The orderly had said, and that was it._

 

* * *

 

 

Lillian had talked to Sharon’s doctor afterwards but he didn’t seem to think much of it. He was sorry to say it but the patient did sometimes ramble on, it was rare but nothing extraordinary. And the contents seemed to be often about Gotham and related things, as her most recent 'impacting' experiences were from there, it was no surprise. Lillian had convinced herself of that on the way back but now, Tetch…

But what was she to do? Run up to GCPD and ask them to turn on the Bat signal? And what will she say? A former doctor of Arkham, now committed at an institution, believes you should hear her? Coincidentally, one of your colorful villains also wants to talk to you. When can you drop by?

Ha.

The TV debate was drawing to a close and so was her colleague’s dinner. Holding the last bit of sandwich, David muttered again.

“But I rather do feel we’re something of an interested party. For one thing, if Batman were really gone, two thirds of us would be sacked. And you know, it really does feel like the wind is blowing the other direction for the old bat these days… not only with Nightwing scandal and associated names but... rumors…”

Sharon would have raised an exaggerated eyebrow, if she weren’t feeling so tired and sick. But she did manage a weak snort.

“Surely you aren’t going about that… ‘bat-sickness’ or whatever. It’s one of those things that crop up every year to be gone the next. Like any urban legends.”

“Some of the patients are talking about it too,”

“We have plenty of real sicknesses going around. We don’t need a made-up one.”

Even as she replied, Lillian flinched, the acute pain stabbing at her innards. It was definitely worse. Not noticing this, David kept on.

“I guess. You know, it’s rather funny that the Bat’s own villains are quick to shoot down those rumors as soon as they’re brought up… ”

There was something bothering her other than the pain, like something on the edge of her vision, something she sensed but couldn’t quite make out…

_Sharon’s fingers clutching the card until Lillian had been nearly forced out of the room… intricate black and white drawing of a joker, with green and red highlights._

Lillian clicked her tongue as she found her latest notes on Tetch. She should really fix this bad habit of writing on the back of used reports, you forget…

_She saw the orderly gently prying out the card from Sharon’s gaunt hand, the card turning in the process. On its back, she could dimly see the drawing of a full-blown jester’s face floating without a body…_

 “……speaking of rumors, did you hear about the reaction of our most honored guest upon hearing some low-tier gang thugs talking about ‘bat-sickness’? I think the poor sods belonged to a tail-end of the Black Mask Gang …Lily… Lily? Are you…”

There was a clattering sound. David stood and turned sharply, only to be greeted by the sight of Lillian half risen from her seat with the chair doubled over.

The hospital-issued trumps cards all had the same, green fractal design on the back.

The card Sharon was holding had _not_ been from the hospital’s deck.

_“HE had been there…”_

The surging pain was as if someone had punched her from the inside, making her vision go black. She bent – then crashed over the desk, grasping her stomach and her throat. At first David just stood dumb, unable to register the sight in front of him, but the gasping and gurgling noise made him rush toward his colleague.

“Lily! Lily! Are you okay? What’s – what’s wrong?!?”

Lillian’s arms swept the desk clear as she tried to gain balance, heavy folders dropping down. Heedless of them, she limped to the side, trying to reach out. She gagged again, white foam bubbling on her mouth. David managed to grab her before she went down. At the same time, the alarm broke and emergency announcement rang throughout the building.

 _“Attention: A mass poisoning case is suspected throughout unit D. Patients and staff alike, do not touch any of the food in the asylum. Calling all available medics to unit D immediately. Again: a mass poisoning -_ ”

As the alarm continued, Lillian’s body shuddered as the last shock of spasm went through her and she went limp in her colleague’s arms.

 

* * *

 

“Is your officer trying to poison me? Or is this just how your coffee tastes?”

Jim Gordon fought the urge to sigh again. He wasn’t sure from exasperation or just a need to inhale bit more air into his lungs. It was his secret fear that he seemed to run short of breath quite often these days. There was no way he was telling Barbara, his daughter who was always finding out where he had secretly stashed his cigarettes.  

“That’s the only kind we got, agent. If you don’t like it, there’s some tea…”

The petit woman – possibly just past her middle age - sitting on the other side of the desk shrugged, gave that crooked smile again, and took a sip.

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it,”

Which is more than I can say regarding this whole situation, Gordon thought, then felt a little guilty. Still, an FBI presence inside any office was rarely a celebratory occasion. However, Gordon wondered if the manner in which the agent _lounged_ on the chair across him was getting to him. Like many old rooms that came to fit their owner like a well-worn suit, the commissioner’s office had a tendency to put a visitor on edge, and therefore at a disadvantage. The overall impression of the dark, musty office was that of disgruntled old guard dog that growled in warning at any stranger. Commissioner Gordon’s office was both his fortress and his temple.

 

 _Except that one time several years ago. Back when he was telling Batman that it was all very well that he kept watch over Gotham’s streets but once he found any hint of bat-branded surveillance anywhere around his office, then that will be_ it. _Because there was a line where he had to put his foot down._

_Then one night, he had come in after a meeting with his officers and even before he set a foot inside the office, he felt something was off. Drawn by some inexplicable force, his eyes spotted a half-smoked cigarette butt resting on the edge of his mug. He did remember taking a cigarette out before he was suddenly called out by detective Bullock._

_There was a red lipstick stain on the chewed end._

_He felt an icy hand grip his insides so that his whole being folded inwards and he bent over, gasping, crashing himself into a corner wall to keep himself from collapsing. Blurry vision became images of broken limbs and glasses, of blood and tear-stained face. The sound of blood rushing in his ears turned into inhuman laughter that he knew so well – despite how much he didn’t want to._

_Blinking through stinging sweat – perhaps even tears - he was surprised to find that his pistol was already out, canvassing the whole room as if it had a life of its own. Biting back the vomit that threatened to rise, he still had managed to go through the entire room – although there really was no point. There wasn’t a place to hide in his office, not even a closet, no hint of forced entry. Sure, he hadn’t kept the door locked but that’d mean someone had cut through the entirety of GCPD and walked in here without anyone noticing. He supposed that he should have bagged the cigarette and had it analyzed just to make sure, but then he got called out again and when he had come back, the cleaning lady had taken care of it._

_Afterwards, he tried to make sense of it. Perhaps a trick of light. Perhaps one of his lipstick-wearing subordinates, in many of the in-office meetings, had simply forgot herself and left her own on her superior’s mug – sleep deprivation and work pressure had forced more seasoned officers to stranger deeds. Even later, a series allegations of small items and dollars going missing as well as personal stack of snacks and cigarettes being eaten and used would lead to the cleaning help being fired. The cranky old woman had let the whole of GCPD know exactly how she felt about that – in at least three different languages and no less diverse gestures on her way out. At that moment, Gordon saw that she had dark, cherry-red lipstick painted thick over her mouth. The unbecoming color had made her mouth obscene and bloated._

_Gordon could have kissed her._

_Yet since, he had never voiced an opinion about possible Batman-induced surveillance about his office, the GCPD building, or his house. Because the uncertainty remained, and with it, the sheer_ possibility.

 

But now, it was as if an intruder had trudged inside his temple with mud-caked boots (both figuratively and literally). The woman had not exactly barged in and swung her feet upon his desk – but her manner communicated that she might as well have.

Gordon’s gaze flickered over the woman’s shoulder – to the figure of a larger man in a suit standing behind her. Special Agent Sergio Lopez, if he remembered correctly. The man deigned to look embarrassed on both of their behalf. In fact, that seemed to be the man’s whole purpose since coming here – to be apologetic for both of them. It was 30 minutes ago that the New York field office had informed GCPD that two agents would be paying a visit. 20 minutes since the two FBI agents had made themselves comfortable in the commissioner’s office.

The smaller agent had turned a few heads as she walked in. Gordon was sure that FBI must have some kind of dress code but this agent was apparently determined to piss upon it as much as possible. The little figure was clad in jeans, some sort of old tennis shoes, and a messy shirt. With only a dull black jacket that seemed a size too big for her the only concession to formality. Not to mention a huge metal – or silver – piercing on the lower lip that caught light whenever she played it with her tongue. But even that wasn’t the most noticeable feature regarding her.

The burn scar crisscrossed the face, a little prominent on the right side, making one side of the lip blurred and drooping, like some red, electrified snake slithering its way over the woman’s face all the way down to the collarbone, to slide beyond the wrinkled collars of her shirt. One of the rookies had stared a bit too long and the agent had turned that crooked grin towards him.

“Not quite as symmetrical as your ex-district attorney, is it?” Then she had turned to Gordon and said sweetly, “Sorry, too soon?”

And now, the woman whose credentials proclaimed her as Melinda Tanith smacked her lips as she took another sip and Gordon could see that there was another piercing in the center of her tongue. As she spoke, it was as if the clanging sound could be heard as steel met her teeth.

“Forgive me if I seem a bit jittery, commissioner. I think I’m a bit awed to be in the city of myths. In the scope of my work, I saw plenty of agents, officers, and prison mates exchange stories about their background – you know, sizing each other up, settle pecking order. And sometimes, a brooding, quiet creature would just utter, “I’m from Gotham,” and for a millisecond, you feel everyone go just a bit quieter. One of the agents I worked with was from here. Not necessarily what you’d call a nice person but interesting, you breed interesting kinds.”

Gordon wondered if she’d guessed that he’d actually made a personal call to someone at the bureau just before and was taking a jab at it. He’d been on the phone with Brandon Walsh, a fellow GCPD officer going back years. It had been a while since Walsh had carved his way up to the Washington division but they had kept in touch – both for old friendship and favors to ask. Because paranoia was a healthy trait in Gotham, once connected to his old friend, Gordon had given Walsh the names of the agents and asked whether he could confirm them. After a momentary silence, Walsh had whispered in a stricken manner.

“Good Lord, Jim, the P.I.T’s coming there?”

“The Pit?”

There was a wheeze of laughter on the other side.

“Pulp Investigative Team. It’s an unofficial title - hell, it's more like a bad joke - given to Tanith and whoever happens to be her partner at the moment. Technically she’s Violent Crimes Section under Criminal Investigative Division but...”

There was another silence where Gordon could tell Walsh was hesitating as to how much he should tell him. Then with a sigh of resignation, Walsh continued.

“…… her specialty is vigilantism and any sort of nicknamed criminals or gangs. Hence the title - Pulp Magazine, Zorro and the Shadow and all that,” 

It was Gordon’s turn to be silent. Then he spoke.

“I guess that means at least their credentials are real. But is this related to…… Red Hood matters in New York? Or those allegations about… the Blüdhaven matter?”

There was a longer pause. Then Walsh, instead of answering Gordon’s questions, asked what exactly the New York office had told him and Gordon replied.

“Basically they told me that two agents would be coming in to ask about… GCPD’s ‘questionable’ state-of-the-art equipment on the office… rooftop.”

“So, Gotham. I suppose it was only a matter of time. Seems appropriate, at least,”

“Brandon, can you enlighten me at all?”

“Believe me, she’ll tell you more than you’d like to know. And Jim, I suggest that after you… give the ‘summons’ - back off as much as possible. Let… the Bat deal with whatever she has brought.”

“Good Lord, Brandon, you’re talking about her as if she were some… plague rat -”

“Oh, in a way she is. But she’s no rat. At the Bureau, we call her a pet pit viper. Listen, she can and will explain all of that better than I ever can, but remember my advice, Jim. Stay away.”

“Sort of hard to act on that advice when your organization is the one sending their pet snake on our way.”

“I didn’t say she was _our_  pet.”

That was how the conversation had ended.

Gordon took a moment to take off his glasses and pinched his forehead, trying to rub out the constant headache.

“So, agent,”

“So, commissioner, I suppose we should explain ourselves.”

She spread out her hands. The overly sycophantic manner was exaggerated to the point that it was calculated to annoy. Strangely, that made Gordon’s dislike dissipate a little. Gordon fancied he had met people like Melinda Tanith. Rather than venomous snakes, they were people poisoned by life. Such people went around spitting poison before it built up inside and killed them, or burst out and proved fatal to others around them.

Either oblivious or uncaring to his subtle change in manner, she bent down and unzipped a large bag she’d dumped by her feet. Gordon had been wondering about that. He’d always imagined the biggest thing an agent would carry was a suitcase. This was more like a canvas bag that an art student would carry around. He lifted an eyebrow as the agent pulled out a large envelope about the size of a telephone book.

“You can use your hands, commissioner, we have gone through them already. There are no prints - or any other forensic evidence.”

Frowning, Gordon pulled out from the envelope what looked like – a hand-bound booklet.

The cover was a handmade paper that seemed to have been aged artificially, to resemble some medieval manuscript. Gordon gingerly turned a page. To his surprise, he realized that it was more like a scrapbook, a collage of picture cuttings and texts from sources he couldn’t guess - even things that he suspected were organic materials. But what caught his attention were familiar symbols that covered the first two pages.

On the left, the same bat mark that adorned the searchlight on GCPD roof.

On the right, a torn trump card. A joker.

Then Gordon caught the heading across both pages - squinting, he read the different font letters.

“… _Dramatis Personae_? Doesn’t that refer to… characters in a drama?”

The agent clapped.

“Well done, commissioner. Now, let me fill you in with background information. Since that is my role.”

Gordon was frankly lost in the last sentence, but the agent moved on.

“I’m sure you’re used to freaks, commissioner. But some do sprout outside of Gotham and… I suppose it’s only natural that it’d eventually gravitate toward the Holy Land of Freaks. The particular freak I’m familiar with, it likes to stage drama using actual people. I happen to be one of the regulars. Perhaps I’m the lucky one, because this freak? It likes tragedies, and it doesn’t do recurring characters.”

The bitterness of the tone had moved on to pure poison by that point. With the still crooked smile that sat on her like a grotesque mask, Agent Tanith continued.

“And we came here to inform you that this freak plans to stage his drama here in Gotham, with your bat and your clown as main protagonists.”

Gordon’s hand hovered over the joker card momentarily, froze, and rested upon the bat symbol, as if seeking some form of protection. The agent leaned forward a little, the poison liquefying into something very closely resembling madness in her black eyes.

“We call this freak the Director.”

 


	2. "What's Past is Prologue"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Special Agents share some background information with Batman and Gordon. The rest of the Bat Family discuss the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of serial killings of children. Gory details and mentions of graphic violence.

"Has anyone seen it yet?"

He grits his teeth as the spidery fingers drum on his back - like playing keys to an unknown melody. He _knows_ that it isn't possible to feel any of it through the sheer armor of his suit. Yet the scar underneath _stings_ and grows hot - as if the movement of the fingers were matches struck against his skin.

Black-gloved, talon-like fingers slam the lean figure against the wall, grinding its back against the rough concrete - almost like trying to pay back even _half_ of that sensation to its offender. The action just prompts another fit of laughter, and brings them closer together. So that the pale creature's breath is mingling with his own. So that every word is crawling underneath his cowl, sticking to his skin, seeping through it.

"If anyone asks how you got those scars, you know what to say,"

A chuckle. A red mouth against his cheek.

"Someone's got your back."

 

 

* * *

 

  
**Act 2. "What's Past is Prologue"**  
\- Shakespeare, _The Tempest,_ Act 2, Scene 1 -

 

  
“So, is it like blowing a dog whistle or sending out a prayer?"

Before Gordon could decide whether to grace the question with an answer, there was an expulsion of breath from behind. Both Gordon and Tanith turned from the Bat-Signal to find Lopez stumbling back towards them - away from the presence that had materialized out of the darkness. A tattered shadow billowing in the rooftop wind with two white lights staring out.

Cape and cowl. Just _cape_ and _cowl_ , Gordon had to mentally check himself. Somehow, the figure looked even more inhuman than it usually did. Perhaps it was the presence of the two agents, someone seeing _him_ for the first time, their uneasiness and fear rubbing off of him, making something familiar feel strange.

Then to Gordon's mild horror, the smaller agent stepped forward and put out her fist.

The woman barely reached the looming figure’s torso, and her fist tapped somewhere on the figure's chest – at least that is where Gordon guessed, for he couldn’t see through the shadows. Gordon thought he heard the male agent taking in a breath.

Batman didn’t move.

The fist soon withdrew and the agent stepped back, shaking out her hand. Her laughter mimicked the movement, with a little tremor in it.

“Sorry, I actually wondered if it’d just go through – “

Then she looked up, the crooked smile still in place.

“We appreciate the drop-in, bat-man.”

It was rather impressive, Gordon thought. The way she somehow managed to communicate the absolute and intentional absence of the capital B. At this point, Gordon felt compelled to improve the nature of this meeting. Stepping around the two agents, he tentatively put forward the booklet - whatever it was that the agent had handed to him back at the office.

“Batman, Special Agents Melinda Tanith and Sergio Lopez from the NY Field Office. They’re here to talk to you about a certain criminal that they suspect to have plans regarding you and......” Gordon trailed off, looking over at the agents.

For the first time since the arrival, the looming figure looked more than a shadow but actual living being as he took the booklet and tilted his head just a bit – so slightly that it might have been Gordon wanting to see such reaction – as if in question. Taking the cue, Tanith stepped past Gordon.

“This may get a bit tedious. I should start from the beginning. I tried short cuts before but it always gets confusing and unbelievable and I end up having to explain the whole thing from the beginning anyway. After all, I am the prologue, the chorus.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
_Years ago._  
_The world had changed._

_The idea of a savior – although that term is still used tentatively and with fear – not out of daylight, in blinding white and glory - but rising out from cover of night, all darkness and vengeance – has taken root. The laughter of an impossible pale creature seemingly wrought of chemical and pain and other such colorful gallery of rogues and vigilantes with their corresponding masks and names have sustained themselves far past the shelf-life of mere rumors. It’s as if the fabric of reality has been torn to reveal a different layer underneath – something like an open maw of pulsating abyss, snapping at the bloody strands of the former reality as it rose past it – all darkness and blood and hunger._

_For some, it was still just a story, a news report, a Halloween costume. In the relatively small town of Liam, Louisiana, Gotham might as well have been a fantasy land of the likes of Mordor._

_Under this backdrop, a package had been delivered on the steps of the Liam Police Department._

_After the requisite checkup for bombs and any harmful substance, the package was unraveled, revealing what appeared to be a hand-bound booklet of strange collages. The only clear writing was a mish-mash paste of various fonts that formed a heading ‘_ Dramatis Personae’ _. Under it, a stylized ‘C’ made up of miniscule squares all meticulously cut up and pasted and a ‘K’ beside it – drawn in what appeared to be soot but turned out to be gunpowder._

 _The department was quick to dismiss it as a prank. And it’d have been that if it weren’t for a rookie detective of the force. Perhaps there wasn’t much for a rookie to do in that town, and the strange booklet had just caught her fancy. So it was that the rookie detective realized that the square images forming ‘C’ were all parts of a_ person’s photograph _\- an eye here, a mouth there – specifically, that of a girl named Kelsey McNab, reported missing three years ago._

_Starting from that, she found that the girl may have marked the beginning of a string of children gone missing for the last few years. The detective kept wrestling with the booklet. Soon, a lapel button in the shape of a skull, a hair stuck on handmade pages led her to the parish sheriff, William Bledsoe, and Karen McNab, the mother of the missing girl. They happened to be a soon-to-be-wed couple, having hooked up at a counseling office, the former to get over the death of his first wife and the latter to deal with the grief of her still-missing child._

_Karen had called Sheriff Bledsoe Charlie, for she thought that his receding round head reminded her of Charlie Brown of the famous comic strip. C & K._

_Only half-believing, the rookie followed the leads to the marshlands, eventually unearthing a small skeletal body covered in a sack underneath the swamp. The dental records proved the body to be that of Kelsey McNab. The little finger bones had been clutching a skull-shaped button from a man’s lapel._

_Sheriff Bledsoe had his coat custom-made, and the lapel buttons were of skull designs, a quirk of his._  
  
_As if the unearthing of the child’s body had acted as a signal – other bodies soon started turning up along the same marshland. The clincher came when the detective managed to break into a cottage on the edge of town, a sort of forgotten legacy left by Bledsoe’s great-grandparents and abandoned to the elements for all intents and purposes. Her path aided, again, by a scrap of a signed deed for the cottage attached to the strange booklet. Eventually she found a loose floorboard, and the concrete basement on which the rambling wooden cottage sat like a disheveled hat. The basement proved to be a sort of collection cabinet: its walls adorned with missing children's trinket or hair or some other form of memorabilia. Later, when questioned, the sheriff would mumble incoherencies: “_ He _told me……_ They _told me I had to remember them by collecting them......"_

_The warrant was soon out and the little town was abuzz with horror that spread throughout the parish like a plague. Everyone thought that the climax was when the sheriff was finally apprehended, trying to drive away in the middle of the night. They were wrong._

_On the day of the trial, Karen McNab had approached as the sheriff was being led to court. All were willing to let her – wanting her to – swing a good one to the killer. The officers flanking Bledsoe hadn't known that the former sheriff had often taken Karen to shooting with him, how he’d gifted her with a Glock on their 3rd anniversary. She’d proven herself an attentive student._

_Karen emptied rounds after rounds until the former sheriff’s head blossomed red. Before the corpse fell, she put the barrel inside her own mouth and pulled the trigger for the last time._

_Afterwards, the detective would find that the counselor who counseled both Karen and the sheriff had suddenly quit and left. People would remember only vague things about him, a face that could’ve been anyone. 'Can’t blame him for wanting to leave after……all this. You know he actually played a sort of Cupid between those two? He must've felt terrible. What’s that? Hmm, that’s funny, no picture or address remaining in our database…...'_

_The rookie detective had become a name throughout the state. The fact that she and her colleagues didn’t share the enthusiasm was further paraded as a show of humility. Only a few knew the reason for the unease: because the booklet bothered them still. Which was why they did everything to keep it out of the media, away from everyone, even themselves, lest their unknown fears came true._

_Months later, another package containing another booklet was delivered to the police office. This time, it had specific name it was addressed to. By that time, the detective wasn’t a rookie anymore._

_The world had changed._

 

 

* * *

 

  
“Couldn’t this Director guy just settle for writing fanfiction or something?”

Tim said as he brought up his head from looking at the booklet, shaking his head.

“And what's this about the agent calling herself the prologue or the chorus?"

“In Elizabethan Theater, an actor would usually announce the beginning of the play by relating the backdrop of the story as well as the _Dramatis Personae_ to the audience. Hence, the word prologue was used to describe both the contents of such recitation and the actor. The chorus - I believe she is referring to the Greek Chorus, an actor or a group actors in a Greek drama that played the part of a narrator or a commentator, Master Tim.”

Alfred explained in his calm tone as he set the tray containing some light snack. This wasn’t the Bat Cave but a new headquarter built in the midst of the city. They sometimes missed the constant low, velvety cacophony of the cave’s bats that drowned out the low hum of the machinery but most of them actually preferred the new place, if only for the actual presence of sunlight.

Bruce, it seemed, needed a little more time to adjust. They had yet to see him sit anywhere willingly whenever he stepped into this white open space. _Like a bat out in daylight. We should make a dark corner with a hook where he can hang down from_ , Dick had said during one of his visits.

Tim looked over Barbara’s head at the numerous screens, which flickered on and off with such speed that he could barely catch up with them.

“So in the very first case, I suppose the Director was that mysterious counselor?"

“We can't assume that. Agent Tanith believes that the Director…...usually ‘primes’ the ‘stages’ and the ‘actors’ by using his...…’crew’.”

“Crew? The Director has an organization of his own?”

“Or they are unwitting accomplices. It’s like a frustrated label that FBI tacked on to people involved in the Director cases yet were NOT indicated to be _Dramatis Personae_. Going back to the first case, the one who ‘primed’ both the stage and the actors would be the counselor – and we can only guess if he was the Director himself or just one of his crew. Actually, it could be 'she' or 'they' because we don't even know that much about the Director.”

Barbara spoke without a pause as her fingers flew over many controls.

“Aside from what the agents have shared with Bruce, I’ve also been going through the FBI database. It’s all so vague. The Director isn’t officially recognized as existing per say, at least not according to official reports. All that _Dramatis Personae_ documents –“

“Let’s just call that thing DP, because it’s a mouthful.”

“- are recorded but are just labeled as ‘delivery to Special Agent Tanith from unknown source(s)’. There are cases tagged in relations to these……DPs but they’re all ‘may be’, ‘suspected’, ‘under investigation’ – nothing concrete.”

“Did the agent ever manage to go……against the Director’s……script? I mean, DP doesn’t seem so much like a clue to the game as it is an invitation for an audience.”

“The agent did apprehend some who were suspected to be belonging to the Director’s crew – although most of them end up either dead or somehow......catatonic. If former, either prison assault or unexplained causes but mostly suicides.”

“Obviously with the Director, loyalty runs a one-way street.”

“There was one case where the agent – well, an LAPD detective at that time - did manage to extract a survivor from a mass murder/suicide case involving a religious community – a girl of ten. Who said that she was ‘directed’ to sprinkle lethal substance into the community’s drinking well. Hence the ‘Director’ title. But other than such small gains, you’re right, Tim. It’s probably why the agent depreciatingly refers to herself as the ‘narrator’.”

"About the feds, shouldn't it be technically the Newark office contacting us? The jurisdiction -"

"The PIT apparently has some independence due to the nature of its workings. And it seems that the NY office did report to the Newark division and once the latter learned this is a Director case, they said 'Fuck it' - sorry Alfred - and washed their hands off the whole deal. And _technically_ , nothing _happened_ yet that warrants federal investigation."

Tim read off the FBI database screen that Barbara had brought up.

"Agent Melinda Tanith. Detective in the town of Liam for 3 years, LA Robbery-Homicide Division Detective for 5 years, FBI Special agent at the NY Bureau at 33 years old – now going four years. Wonder why the Liam Police was chosen in the first place,"

"It seems that other booklets have been sent out to other areas about at the same time – most treated them as a practical joke and some who pursued it soon forgot about them due to ‘real’ police work. So Agent Tanith - then detective - was the first to get on track and to stay on it. Apparently she went around the states to collect those afterwards.”

“So the initial DP send-out was a ‘resume’ of a sort. No good deed goes unpunished, so what can we obtain from this DP?”

“According to the agents, this one is an anomaly. Usually figuring out who the DP are is half the work and afterwards, the ‘script’ is pretty much laid out for the agent to interpret but this one practically states outright who the DP are but nothing else.”

The booklet had already been scanned and pages of it now floated onto many screens in front of them. Aside from the prominent joker card and the bat symbol, the booklet contained a series of collages made of –

“Are those……dried flowers and leaves?”

“And stems. Straight eight pages of these collages. So far, I can’t make heads or tails about what these images exactly represent. The only thing that comes to my mind is a Teletubbie dancing on that horrible hill that somehow always reminded me of The Wasteland-.”

“Hey, now that you say it, I kind of see it –“

“Not to mention those black lines around the collage – the lower right, a circle. On the left, a slash. Then all those seemingly haphazard thick black strokes – I found they were done in Chinese calligraphy brush but as for the meanings, I have no idea.”

“Maybe this guy’s art style has devolved?”

“Apparently this is vague even for Agent Tanith. She actually said that she even suspected it was a malicious joke from someone in the bureau who knew her history. If not for the extra……proof.”

As if on cue, all three heads turned. Plastered on the Plexiglas display behind them was a picture about the size of an A2 paper – old and stained so that it looked like some parchment, roughly torn edges crinkling at the ends. It had been carefully inserted in the middle of the DP, sandwiched between oil paper and actual vellum.

Tim shifted, frowning.

“Can’t we put a tarp over it or something? Or better yet, just put it away somewhere?”

“You do realize that there’s a huge Joker card looming over at the Bat Cave?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s been there like forever that we hardly notice it anymore. Besides, it’s at the Bat Cave. While this place……”

Tim trailed off. Yet everyone understood. Bat Cave was, first and foremost and perhaps forever – Batman’s. This new headquarter was distinctly for ‘them’. For all of them. And the presence of such a – thing felt as if this place was already tainted, violated. Bruce had put it up at the display the moment he’d returned from the meeting with the agents. Tim wondered if Barbara and Alfred resented it as much as he did.

The picture was done in ink. What initially looked like a crude and rough affair like a child going wild took certain forms if one looked at it closely: lines zigzagging, crisscrossing, and tangling into each other became writhing figures looking barely human piling onto each other to make a shape of towers that was reminiscent of old structures prominent in Gotham. There were grotesque faces bleeding into gargoyle-like creatures, a spread-out bony hands that transformed into crows the moment one squinted eyes a certain way – and a hanged man kissing with a laughing man (was that a clown’s elaborate cap the figure was wearing? Or did it mean to describe his head being burst open? Blood spurting out like confetti?) – and numerous other figures that whirled and danced – all joined by complicated and maddening lines of black, red, and green.

And if one took a few steps back and gazed at it while narrowing one’s eyes like slits – lines blurred into shades and individual shapes merged to form something larger – one whole image, rising like those old magic-eye hologram pictures or a Rorschach test – something that resembled a spiky, deep-dipping crescent lying on its back.

In effect, something that could be seen as a smile.  
Or a bat with outstretched wings.

(“Your clown, whatever he is, he has talent,” the agent had said, after Batman had recognized the drawing right away.)

 

* * *

 

  
_It was in the early days._

_No birds attached to the bat’s name. No robin crushed by crowbar and no daughter broken in order to break another man. Not yet._

_GCPD had still been tentative about the signal – some debating whether to unplug it (smash it) for good whenever they climbed up the roof. But the city knew something had changed for good. And it would whisper the names of that change so that they carried through the heavy air of the city, so that they’d flow along the putrid veins underneath the ground, until they stuck to every nook and cranny of every construction so that its unwitting denizens would be breathing in them._

_One of such names had been known already. Almost as early as the bat’s and spoken in almost the same breath. Already the bat had put him in Arkham multiple times. It was during one of those early stays that he took to drawing as suggested by one of the doctors (Ink supplied within vinyl tubes that could be squeezed out. Because even a crayon in an Arkham inmate’s hand might as well end up in someone else’s eye.). Unresponsive or uncooperative to most of the treatments, the drawing proved to be a distraction that made his stay something resembling peace – at least before the inevitable breakout._

_One of the more enterprising Arkham staff had taken liberty of pinching one of those drawings as he left the asylum. Knowing there were collectors for such items, he’d put it up for online auction, detailing its history. The work was eventually sold and mailed. However, the ex-guard never got to enjoy his unusual pension. For it wasn’t long until the artist himself found out and he paid the ex-staff a visit. No-one would ever know about the actual conversation that took between the originator and the seller of the drawing However, the result was witnessed the next day, by the ex-guard’s friends. When they entered his apartment, they couldn’t understand what they were seeing, at first. The man was standing behind an upturned closet – an impromptu podium – one hand clutching a karaoke mike upon it. His friends could tell the body was actually propped up, the whole thing staged – because the standing body was without a head._

_The head could be found by following the other outstretched hand – directing the viewer’s gaze to the largest wall. The head was hung upon it, framed, and the bulging eyes, a tongue rolling out, the rubbery, jaundiced flesh making it seem not real, like a figure made of wax. Underneath, written in official-looking roman type was: “Bid starts at a dime. Artist’s cut: 50%”_

_One of the witnesses had even broken out a hysterical, sob-like laughter._

_(The little epilogue to this was that the ex-guard’s - separated but not divorced - wife ended up with the seller’s bounty. Although suitably horrified at the manner of her husband’s demise, she had no issue collecting. The fact that the word wife-beater wasn’t just the choice of preferred clothing by her husband may have helped. Still, she had learned the lesson in her husband’s stead, for she sent 50% of the money to a certain cell in Arkham, carefully marking it as the artist’s cut.)_

_Since then, no-one dared to touch any of the clown’s works left scattered over Arkham, as if touching his work would work like a summoning, fearful that the Clown Prince of Crime would leap out and use them as pigments of his deranged works. Jeremiah Arkham had eventually gathered them together and sealed them inside a storage in one of the old buildings. The work sold by the unfortunate guard was the only work that had ever been outside. Both the Bat and the GCPD had tracked both the mail address and the IP of the purchaser, leading to dead ends. So the painting by the most notorious of all Gotham criminals seemed lost forever._

_Until years later._

 

 

* * *

 

  
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word in private, commissioner.”

Gordon had been surprised when Special Agent Lopez had spoken. The ‘meeting’ ended once the agent had finished giving her piece. As usual, the moment Gordon had turned to discuss the course of action, the words ‘I’ll be in touch’ was whispered and the commissioner was not at all surprised to turn to a very empty expanse of the GCPD rooftop. ‘I guess he doesn’t exchange numbers.’ The agent’s quip was the final note.

The other agent’s presence had not been quite forgotten during the meeting but he had been relegated to a sort of background. Apparently the two agents had talked about this because Tanith had walked out of Gordon's office first - saying that she'd be mingling with Gotham's finest until the two were done. It was slightly worrying.

And now, Lopez was speaking.

“I’ll be frank, commissioner. Our – ‘team' is treated very much like a scab in the Bureau: If you tear it off, it might fester, if you don’t watch it, it might fester anyway. It’s no secret that being assigned to her is the bureau’s way of saying that you’ve fucked up somehow and you have two options – make it up by being a good, sturdy, and most of all, _patient_ or step off that career cliff as gracefully as possible.”

“And what befell you, may I ask, Agent Lopez?”

“I’m an anomaly, I volunteered.”

Gordon looked at the agent with a new scrutiny. The agent gave a rueful smile which made him look younger despite the overly formal suit. It confirmed Gordon’s suspicion that he might be almost ten years junior than his partner.

“I started as a rookie in Louisiana. Same town, junior to her. Something of a hero story – doggedly chasing down an authority figure for murders over years. I can’t really explain it, commissioner, perhaps I’m trying to hold on to shards of a legend that made me what I am.”

Gordon reflected back to the way the agent had gazed at the small, stooped back of the woman going out of the office and wondered if there was something more than just the shared roots and an old hero-worship. Outwardly, he said, “I’m surprised the FBI are so open about this. Do you recite all this information for every Director cases? Or is this a special treatment because the Bureau thinks that a vigilante dressed as a bat wouldn’t have any issues with accepting this far-fetched story?”

“As Tanith explained, the – ‘booklet’ usually deals with people already involved in crime – murders, corruption, crime in cults, trafficking – both narcotics and human – and – vigilantes. So we work from that angle when we find the _Dramatis Personae_ , refraining from any mention of the Director. The truth is, commissioner, our directors don’t even acknowledge most of what we told you. As far as they’ve decided, it’s like an urban legend that goes around some of our agents. Some go as far as saying she probably makes those little booklets herself. I’d show you the internal memos going around about her if I can. Yet the arrests look good on paper and media, so she stays. It’s an irony that the Director contribute to that record.”

“Is that why she keeps on chasing the Director?”

There was a flash of anger in the agent’s eyes and Gordon again wondered about his previous suspicion regarding this man’s stance towards his partner.

“That is what I wanted to tell you. There was a time when these booklets stopped coming. A full year and nothing. During that time, Mel - Detective Tanith in the LAPD at that time – transitioned to FBI. After six months since, a booklet was delivered to her NY Field Office. After such a respite, something must’ve snapped inside her. She approached her superior with the cursed thing, spilled the whole story whether he’d believe it or not and said she’d no longer carry it out, the FBI can investigate the thing if they want, but leave her out, fire her if they need to – but she was done. Another three months with nothing. Then one day she got called out personally about a case - turns out it was a false alarm. She got back to a burning office – a custom-made liquid bomb delivered during her absence. She rushed in and managed to drag out a colleague who was practically a torch by then. Her burns are from that time.”

Gordon grimaced.

“No survivors except Mel. It's never been solved. It's actually one of the reasons we use for Director Cases - saying we're on the trail of a killer of federal agents. It's a good reason for federal presence anywhere. Only – during Mel - Tanith's hospitalization as she was recovering from the burns, a nurse – at least someone dressed as a nurse – came in, and whispered the words _‘The show must go on’_ in her ear and went away. The hospital staff found Mel fallen off the bed, trying to drag herself across the floor, screaming.”

Agent Lopez took a deep breath before he continued.

“The Bureau therapist said she was suffering from PTSD, possibly even delusional from it. That’d have been it if it weren’t for the fake nurse being spotted in the CCTV – bending over Mel. The hospital staff confirmed that they’ve never seen that nurse before. So it wasn’t just her words. Still, she stopped trying to convince anyone. In fact, I think this is the first time she even mentioned the name Director directly since then. But you see why she can’t quit and why the Bureau partly lets her stay because…… the possible consequence……”

Gordon nodded. He knew all about the fear of _possibility_ …

Agent Lopez shifted.

“I know it looks as if we’re merely playing the cat’s paw to this psychopath but Mel – Tanith did manage to build up a viable profile – it’s all among the files we’ve given and although she hasn’t said, I can tell you that she thinks this _Dramatis Personae_ is different than all the previous ones.”

“A decidedly large production, you think?”

“Even more, this may be what that the Director has been building up to – like all the past cases have been – ‘rehearsals’. Considering the fact that the Director started its career about a couple of years after purchasing the - clown's - painting - Mel seems to suspect that Batman and his - villains may have been an _inspiration_ for the Director in the first place.”

Gordon sighed and leaned back to his desk. ‘Batman may have swooped in to take out city’s corruption, but brought in the crazies to fill the void.’ It was an old argument. The young man – for that was how Gordon perceived the agent now – sighed.

“So what I wanted to say is - we think this might be the big break, Director throwing in the gauntlet, as it were. Mel is known as the viper in the Bureau, commissioner – that means she does not let go of a case she’s gotten hold of and this one is personal. But her methods can be – drastic, stretching the rules just before the breaking point. She has a string of allegations misconduct tied around her. I wanted you to know beforehand – reading off the file’s one thing, hearing from a person is another.”

Gordon smacked his dry mouth, he felt he needed a cigarette. Instead, he breathed in the musty air of the office.

“She okay with you speaking for her?”

“It’s not really a secret, and I think – “ the man’s voice held a note of sadness – “she’s past the point the caring whether anyone talks anything about her.”

“Hmm, but – really, Batman’s the – involved party here, why didn’t you speak during the meeting?”

The man actually seemed to fidget a little, then he apparently made up his mind.  
  
“Although it’s not anything classified – it’s – still a personal story, you understand.”

Gordon narrowed his eyes. Not looking at him directly, the agent continued.

“Honestly, during the course of our investigations, we came across many vigilante characters, never mind criminals that fancy themselves the next Scarecrow and so on. So I thought – and I think Mel hoped – that – he would be the same as others. Just a man hiding behind a mask and a reputation that is marginally longer than others. Then I saw him for the first time today and – “

The agent shook his head a little.

“It’s a personal story, and I wanted to tell it to a _person_. Perhaps I'm a coward for it but – that is how I’ve decided. I trust you to do with what I’ve told you however you see fit.”

Gordon wondered if he should feel offended on behalf of Batman. Then he found that he really couldn’t. He guessed the agent’s next sentence, hoped he wouldn’t speak them, but he did. The agent had given another weak smile as he said them.

“And – to be honest, commissioner, I hope I never come to facing the _other_ creature,”

Now Commissioner Gordon was alone again in his office. None of them had talked about how the _other Dramatis Personae_ was to be alerted to this. Not even Batman had mentioned it. How long has it been? The monster had gone away before, much longer than this. Yet……

Where was the Joker right now?

Gordon opened up the window despite the heavy rain and puffed out a smoke with relish, building regulations be damned.

He was quite sure that the agents, despite the seemingly magnanimous gesture of sharing all information, couldn’t have disclosed everything. Likewise, he wondered how much he should share with the agents. How much Batman would share with them…...

The short peace did not last, for there was a nervous knock and Gordon, with a sigh, muttered assent. A rather flustered officer - Lydia Sang, he knew - poked her head in.

“Commissioner, there’s……a possible suicide case at the Diamond District.... Detective Bullock is at the site but he wanted to let you know...…”

Gordon waited patiently, Harvey wouldn’t have made a report to him for a regular suicide case. At last, Lydia continued.

“Seems to have hung himself, no identifications so we’re still trying to figure out who he is, but……right behind him, on the wall is a graffiti. Red spray was found and quite a lot of it on the body, so it’s likely that the man did it himself before he hung himself. And…… apparently it says…… BAT-SICKNESS.”

There was a pause, and she went on.

“Detective Bullock is not sure what to do with the scene. He’s sure the media......”

Gordon groaned and put on his coat. Passing by the officer, he snapped harsher than he’d meant to.

“If I hear anyone here talking about 'bat-sickness' to the media, there'll be hell to pay. Make sure everyone knows that.”

“Yes, commissioner but do you think – “

“No, I don’t think anything.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm no theater major, I'm just researching as I go. So readers who actually do know something about the subject may be exasperated at any mistakes I've made...... (Please let me know so that I can fix them!)
> 
> The same goes for actual FBI procedures. Although I do try to do the research, some things I make up as I go. The Pulp Investigative Team is completely fictional. Originally, they were Interpol agents but I learned that Interpol didn't quite function the way I imagined. Basically, I needed some form of law enforcement other than GCPD and FBI seemed best for this purpose. 
> 
> The Town of Liam is also fictional.


End file.
